Author's Note: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of self-injury, including some moderate gore, which some readers may find triggering. There is also reference to past graphic sexual content, including some unsafe sexual practices.

"In a perverse way, I was glad for the stitches, glad it would show, that there would be scars. What was the point of just being hurt on the inside? It should bloody well show." -Janet Fitch

44 days sober

The call comes halfway through lunch on Thursday. I’m sitting next to Travis—Riley had rolled his eyes and pretended not to notice my silent pleading for him to switch seats with me—and leaning halfway across the table to engage Nate in an argument about the stupidity of forcing a costume change before the bonfire scene. “For shit’s sake, Holliday, it’s bad enough that you want us to change for the sleepover scene—I’m changing onstage for that, I’ve got no idea how you got Markland to approve that—and then you want us to change back into normal clothes, then formal for the dance, back into normal, and then you’re having John and Joss change again for the final two songs and bows? That’s insane.” “Stop complaining,” Nate demands. “You’re wearing the same black jeans for every scene but the sleepover—” “Changing from sweatpants and a beater to jeans and a t-shirt onstage, what the fuck. You can’t just say Rizzo left the room and let me change in the wings before I go back out for my scene with Christine?” In what I can only assume is an attempt to find the silver lining, John shrugs and says, “You get to keep your boxers on.” “I don’t wear boxers. I don’t wear anything,” I say, and Nate’s face goes tomato red high on his cheekbones. I grin. “You need to take a personal moment for that one, Nate? Couple seconds to picture it, enjoy it? That’s cool, you go right ahead, I’ll wait.” “I think a lot of us need a personal moment for that,” Christine admits, and I laugh. On Travis’ other side, Joss mutters, “A moment to fight back our nausea.” My phone buzzes in my pocket, then again, and again, and again. A call, not a text. I’m expecting it to be a wrong number from someone who doesn’t realize I’m busy right now, but when I slip my phone from my pocket, Ben’s name blinks up at me from the display. Next to me, Travis glances at it and makes a slightly strangled noise that I try to ignore. We haven’t spoken to each other since what happened on Monday. My face heats up—I wonder if he’s still thinking about me kissing Ben, or my face when I come, or that goddamn spitting. I send a quick glance around the cafeteria to make sure there aren’t any teachers nearby, then answer the call, “Hey, gorgeous. I—” “Are you at school right now?” Ben cuts across me. “Uh, it’s noon on a Thursday, and I’m a senior in high school, so… yes, I’m at school,” I say, frowning. There’s a sharpness in his tone that makes me uncomfortable. Besides, he knows where I am. Or, he should. “Is something wro—” “Fuck, okay,” Ben mutters, not entirely to me. “Alright. I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you—” “Ben, wait. Something’s wrong, I can hear it in your voice. Tell me what’s going on,” I say. For several seconds, there is nothing but absolute silence; I actually take the phone away from my ear to check the display so that I can be sure that he hasn’t hung up on me. The call is still going. I return the phone to my ear just in time to hear him take another shallow breath and say, “I-If hypothetically, someone had um… if someone had cut himself, and gone too deep, or hit a vein or something, a-and his roommate wasn’t home to help, and there was so much fucking blood that he was starting to feel sick, and he didn’t know what to do… what, um, what should that person do?” My own blood goes cold. Without thinking, I reach over and slide my hand into Travis’ where it’s lying on the table next to his lunch tray. His breath hitches, and I tighten my grip, drawing a few pairs of eyes to the point of contact between us. Joss leans around Travis to snap, “Garen, can you not?” “Shut the fuck up, Josslyn,” I say tightly. I turn slightly and lower my voice enough that no one can hear me except for Travis and Ben. “How long ago did this happen?” “I don’t know. Maybe twenty-five minutes?” “Are you still bleeding?” That is the question that finally makes Travis realize what’s going on. Maybe not the specifics of it, maybe not why Ben is bleeding, but it’s enough to make him lean closer and return the grip on my hand. “Garen, what’s wrong? What happened to him?” Unable to say it aloud, especially in front of this group of people who are clearly doing their best to eavesdrop, I shake my head. He squeezes my hand tightly enough to crack my knuckles, and I can tell he’s not going to let me get away with refusing to answer. I meet his eyes and very deliberately drag the tip of my thumb across his wrist, imitating the action I know he understands only too well. He looks like he’s about to be sick. On the other end of the phone call, Ben says, “Yeah, I’m still bleeding. Kind of badly. I-I thought it would stop. It always stops, especially when I’m doing it higher up on my forearm, instead of near my wrist. But th-this was a new razor, and I think I pressed down too hard when I was doing it, because this cut… god, it’s so much fucking deeper than it should be.” I swallow hard. “And you said Alex isn’t there? He can’t drive you to the emergency room?” “No, no, Garen, it’s not that—I don’t need to go to the emergency room, okay? I can’t do that, I don’t want to do that. It’s just, I need someone to help me stop the bleeding, I need to bandage my arm, but Alex isn’t here to help me. It’s fine, I’ll figure it out myself, I only called you because I was surprised by how much—it’s a lot of fucking blood, G.” Ben is a lot of things, but he’s not a drama queen. If anything, he downplays everything. So, if he’s saying it’s a lot of fucking blood, that must mean it’s critical. I check the time on Travis’ watch. “Okay. That’s okay, that’s fine, we’ll worry about Alex later. But I need you to stay where you are and wrap something around your arm. A towel, or a sweatshirt, anything. I need you to keep pressure on it. I’m too far away to drive you—I’m leaving school the second I hang up, but I still can’t get there for at least another half an hour, and that’s too much time. I’m going to call Stohls and—” “Please don’t,” Ben says, voice tight. “She doesn’t know that I do this, I don’t want her to—” “This isn’t a fucking debate, dude,” I snap. “She lives five minutes away from you. I’m going to call her and tell her that you need her help, and I’ll tell her not to ask you any questions. She’ll check you out, see if she can bandage you up, but if she thinks you need it, she’s going to take you to the hospital, and I’m going to meet you there, and you’re not going to fucking fight either of us about this. You’re going to be fine, I promise, I just need you to make sure you stay calm and keep as much pressure on the cut as possible. Can you do that for me?” “Garen, I’m scared,” he whispers. He sounds like he’s going to cry; I think maybe I am, too. At the very least, I am seconds away from freaking the fuck out, but I manage to calm my voice enough to say, “I know you are, dude. I am, too. That’s why I’m going to call Stohler and have her come help you.” “I’m really, really sorry.” “Don’t be sorry. Just say you’ll do what I asked,” I say. The moment he agrees, I hang up. “I’m coming with you,” Travis says immediately. Before I can either agree or object, he puts a hand to my shoulder and pushes until I stand and step away from the edge of the bench. He slides out after me and orders Nate, “Tell Ms. Markland we’re not going to be at rehearsal. Have the crew continue painting the carnival pieces, okay? They should know what to do.” “She’s going to be really upset, Travis, we’re barely a month away from opening night,” Nate warns, eyes fixed on our still-joined hands. “I don’t care,” Travis snaps. “Tell her there was an emergency, and we had to leave school early.” I dig into my pockets—thank god, my keys and wallet are actually with me, so I won’t have to stop at my locker for them. Travis takes one step closer towards me, towards the door, but his progress is halted when Joss darts out a hand and wraps it around his wrist. Her eyes are pleading as she says, “You promised you were done with him.” Really? Now? They might not have heard everything I was saying, and I doubt any of them fully understood what was inferred, but everyone at the table heard enough to realize that someone I care about—someone Travis cares about, too, no matter how much they may have hated each other on Monday night—is seriously injured. And of course it would figure that now’s the moment when horrible, selfish Joss would decide to launch another episode of the ‘Travis Should Choose Joss Over Garen’ show. I yank away from Travis’ grip and say, “I do not have time to deal with this petty, high school drama. I’m leaving.” I stride away, head pounding too much to listen to the continued argument behind me, and dial Stohler’s number with trembling fingers. The phone is still ringing and I’ve only made it halfway to the cafeteria door when I become aware of hurried footsteps behind me. Travis runs right past me, barely pausing long enough to grab my wrist and drag me after him with an urgent, “Come on, let’s go.” Us. He chose us—me and Ben, his real friends, not just some girl who happened to have the right sexual organs to get herself knocked up. I’m so distracted by my own gratefulness that I almost forget to speak when Stohler finally picks up the call with, “This had better be important, Anderson, I’m trying to sleep.” “Can you do me a favor?” I ask, without bothering to think of a nicer way to put it. “Depends on the favor,” she says, yawning. “Ben’s hurt, and he says he doesn’t want to go to the hospital, but I think he needs to. I need someone to go over to his apartment and check him out, and if it’s as bad as I think it is, I need you to bring him to the ER.” The change in her tone might be funny, if it, you know, weren’t awful. “I’ll—fuck, I’m getting dressed right now, I’ll head right over. What happened to him?” “I can’t really explain it right now, okay? I’m still in Lakewood, and I’m on my way now, but I can’t get there soon enough to be sure he’s okay. I need someone to take—” “I’m walking out of my building as we speak, and I’ll text you the second I have more details, alright? Just get to New Haven. Now.” She hangs up without another word, and I take a moment to be painfully grateful for Lindsey Stohler. The sound of our running footsteps must be louder than I’d realized; we’re halfway down the senior hallway when a door swings open and Mr. Esteves, our trial law teacher, pokes his head out of his classroom. “Hey, hey, boys. Why aren’t you in class right now?” I skid to a halt, but Travis gives my hand a hard yank and says, “There’s been a family emergency. We have to go.” Mr. Esteves frowns. “Do you both have passes from the main office?” “No, we don’t, and we don’t have time to stop and get them. You can give us both detention later. Garen, walk,” Travis orders, and I allow myself to be dragged onward. A peek over my shoulder tells me that Mr. Esteves is as stunned by Travis’ tone as I am—I’d bet my Fender Strat that it’s the first time in the history of his high school career that Travis McCall has blown off a teacher and requested detention. Travis releases me and slams the heels of his hands into the latch of the main door, and we both come tumbling out of the building onto the front steps. This isn’t the first time I’ve bailed on school during the middle of my lunch period, but it is the first time I’ve been so obvious about it, and the first time I’ve had someone with me. Or, leading me, in this case—Travis is sprinting towards my car, and holy shit, he’s fast. He reaches the car before I do, tries the handle on the passenger side door, but finds it locked. He’s far enough ahead of me that it seems like a waste of time to do anything but pitch him the keys; he catches them, unlocks his own door, then leans across the center console to unlock the driver’s door and start the engine. I fling myself behind the wheel, slam my door shut, and gun it out of the parking lot. “Tell me what happened,” Travis demands. “I don’t know, he just called me and said he’d cut himself, gone too deep. He’s been bleeding for about twenty minutes—he says he feels sick. I didn’t—” “Alex,” Travis interrupts, “Alex can—” “He’s not at the apartment. I sent my friend Stohler over to help him, she’s going to see if she can fix him, but if it’s too bad, she’s taking him to the hospital. I just—I don’t understand. We hung out the day before yesterday, I talked to him on the phone last night, and he was fine. I don’t get what happened. I don’t understand why he’d be so depressed that he’d do this to himself.” Travis remains silent for so long that I can’t help but glance over at him. He’s staring down at his own wrists, which are lying upturned on his lap. They’re completely bare—at least, they’re not as scarred and shredded as Ben’s are. The sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up to his elbows, exposing the smooth, still summer-tanned skin of his forearms. His right arm is littered with old scars, faint, slightly paler lines that stretch across his flesh. It’s like he was playing connect-the-dots with his freckles. Right below the bend of his elbow, peeking out from the bottom of his sleeve, there is one cut that was made recently enough to still be angry, red, barely scabbed over. Feeling my eyes on him, he looks up at me and swallows. “Sometimes it’s not like that. Sometimes nothing has happened, but you need to do it anyway, because there’s—because just getting through the day is hard. And that’s how you deal. That’s how Ben deals.”You mean it’s how you deal, I want to say, but even thinking those words drowns me in a wave of disgust at my own hypocrisy. I know all too well what it feels like to not know if I’ll be able to make it through the day without finding something to suck out the poison in my mind. I chose coke and pills and whiskey; they choose the edge of a blade. At the end of the day, it’s all just a distraction, so why am I judging their version of solace? “Open the glovebox,” I say, and he obeys without comment. At the next red light, I lean over and rummage through it until I find my cigarettes. I pluck one from the pack, stick it between my lips, and set the tip of it aglow with the Zippo I keep in my pocket. Travis shoots me a disgruntled look and stretches an arm across me to roll down my window. “Really, Garen? Now’s the time for that?” “My not-boyfriend just slashed his wrists open and is on his way to the hospital. If now isn’t the right time to have a smoke, I have no idea what is,” I snap. “And it’s my car, so if you’ve got a problem with it, feel free to do a tuck-and-roll out onto the side of the road.” He snaps the glove compartment shut and turns to stare out the window. I flick the stereo on. No matter how fast I drive, it’s still a thirty minute ride from Lakewood to New Haven. Thirty minutes of dead silence would be my undoing, so I do my best to block out the awkwardness between us by alternating between singing along with the music and taking drags off my cigarette. I have just flicked the butt of the cigarette out the window when Travis suddenly darts out a hand and shuts off the music, leaving me singing along to the next lyric without accompaniment, “—but I am too weak to be your cure.”

The words die in my throat, punctuated by the vibration of my cell phone in the cup holder. Without waiting for my permission, Travis snatches it up, opens my inbox, and reads aloud, “‘He refuses to let me bring him to the hospital, but your boy needs a doctor ASAP, or he’s going to bleed the fuck out--”

“Fuck,” I say tightly. “Text back, tell her—” “—‘Have wrestled him into my Mustang, you’re paying to get the twink blood detailed out of my interior. We’re going to the urgent care clinic on Elm. Meet us there.’” He taps out a quick text, presumably acknowledging his receipt of the message, then drops the phone back in the cup holder. He takes a deep, steadying breath, then forces himself to give me what I bet he thinks is a reassuring smile. “Okay. So, she’s getting him help. That’s good, he’s going to be—” “How much blood can someone lose before he dies?” I can’t stop myself from asking. “Don’t ask me that,” Travis says sharply. “He’s not going to die, Jesus Christ, he’s going to be fine. Stohler is—” “Can you just answer the fucking question?” I demand. He yanks his sleeves down over his hands and rubs them over his face for a moment before saying tonelessly, “About forty percent of their total blood volume. For somebody Ben’s size, that’s maybe two liters.” I can’t help but picture one of those big, two-liter pop bottles—it doesn’t seem like much, not when it’s the only thing standing between one of my best friends and death. But then again, I can’t really picture that amount of blood managing to come out of a person’s arm, not unless it was fucking cut off. I chain-smoke the rest of the way to New Haven. There’s an empty meter just down the block from the urgent care clinic Stohler described, which is good, because at this point, I think I probably would’ve just parked in the middle of the goddamn sidewalk and let them tow my car. I parallel park between an SUV and a white food truck that appears to be selling tacos, then leave Travis to stuff a few quarters into the meter while I jog inside. The clinic’s waiting area is empty, which I can only assume is a good thing—if there’s no one else here, Ben was probably seen by a doctor almost immediately. There’s a reception desk, manned by a woman with alert eyes and a nonjudgmental smile. I step towards her, and she slides open the glass window separating us so that I can say, “Hi, um, my boyfriend came in a little while ago. Benjamin McCutcheon. Is he still—I mean, is he okay? Is he here? Can I see him?” I must have been right about this not being a busy day, because she barely has to glance down at her clipboard before she says, “Eighteen-year-old male, laceration to the left forearm, came in with a young blond woman?” “Yeah, that’s him. Them. She’s my friend,” I say, and I’m kind of babbling, but I’m afraid that if I don’t keep talking, I won’t be able to get the words out again if she asks me a direct question later. I hear the clinic door open and shut, and I know without looking that it’s Travis who is now standing behind me. “Yes, she said you’d be along. They’re meeting with the doctor now. Would you like me to have one of the girls show you back to the exam room?” she asks. I nod, not trusting myself to say anything other than of course I want you to show me back to the room, you fucking idiot. As if sensing my impending hysteria, Travis places a hand in the small of my back, grounding me. A girl in scrubs—she’s barely the same age as us, how the fuck can she be qualified to work here?—steps out of the reception area and beckons us towards a set of double doors. “Right through here.” The pressure on my back increases until I have no choice but to allow Travis to guide me in the direction of the doors. We pass through them, and the girl opens her mouth to speak again, but I can already see Stohler down the hall, pacing back and forth outside an exam room. The moment she sees me, she is so overcome with a wave of relief that she actually braces herself with a hand raised to the wall. “Garen. You’re here.” I’m at her side in an instant, leaving Travis to trail after me and the girl in scrubs to disappear back to the reception area. “How is he? Is he okay? Is his arm—” “His arm is a fucking horror show. Jesus Christ,” Stohler hisses. Her t-shirt is smeared with streaks of blood, and I have to look up at the ceiling so that I won’t be sick. “He could barely stand up to answer the goddamn door—from what I could tell, he buzzed me into the building and just sat down in his hallway. I had to practically carry him out to the car because he was so weak from blood loss. He almost passed out in the goddamn waiting room.” “For fuck’s sake, Lindsey, is he going to be okay?” I burst out. She curves her shaking hands over my shoulders and gives me a rough squeeze. “He’ll be fine, man. We just met with the doctor. They’re going to sterilize the wound and stitch it up, but he didn’t actually hit any major veins or arteries. He doesn’t need a transfusion, he doesn’t need surgery, he doesn’t—hey. Anderson. Look at me.” I allow my eyes to drop back to her pale but determined face. “He’s not going to die, if that’s what you’re worried about. He didn’t bleed out. He’s going to be fine.” “Can I go in and see him?” I ask, barely waiting for her to nod before I push open the exam room door and slip inside. I’ve never been to an urgent care clinic, and I’ve only been in the hospital three times. Every time has begun with me waking up, pained and delirious, in a bed. This room has no bed, just cabinets, a sink, two folding chairs, and a small exam table where Ben is sitting, and waiting, and bleeding. His eyes are wide and unfocused, but aimed in the general direction of the forearm resting limply in his lap. His right hand is holding a blood-soaked dish towel over where the cut must be; the sleeve of his shirt is bunched up over his elbow, but the hem of it is still stained black-red. And it’s—I’m not James, I don’t spend all my time mocking Ben for being five-six and a hundred and twenty pounds, but right now, he looks so small. I step up to his side and press a soft kiss to his temple. He doesn’t move at all, so I repeat the gesture and murmur, “Hey, babe. I talked to Stohler. She told me the doctor said you’re going to be okay.” “No, I’m not,” he says. “God, she must think I’m such a psycho. And the doctor, too. You didn’t see the way he looked at me. He was trying to hide it, to hide his disgust, but I could tell, he thinks I’m completely crazy. This is why I didn’t want to go to a doctor, okay? Because I didn’t—I’m so fucked up, I didn’t want them to know. I was fine when I could hide it, when the only people who knew about it were you, and Al, and Travis. It was fine then, but now it’s all—” “Ben, it’s okay. It was an accident, it’s not like you were trying to off yourself. You’ll be fine. It’s not a big deal,” I say, parroting back the words everyone else has been using. Ben finally looks at me, but I wish he hadn’t, because he’s sneering. “Not a big deal? Really?” Before I can stop him, he unwraps the dish towel and exposes the—fucking fuck. The cut on his arm is a diagonal, four-inch slash of screaming red raging across his skin. It’s hideously deep, still bleeding even now, and oh my god, how is he still conscious? I allow myself to reel back for no more than half a second, and then I fumble to apply pressure with the towel once more. That is not something that should be left open and exposed. “Tell me again, Garen,” he says steadily. “Tell me how it’s not a big deal.” I don’t have a chance to say anything else, because the exam room door opens, and an unreasonably tall Indian man steps inside, followed by the same girl in scrubs from before. She’s wheeling along a cart laden down with needles and sutures and gauze. The man looks mildly surprised to see that anyone but Ben is in the room. “Hello. And you are?” “Garen Anderson. Boyfriend,” I say, and Ben gives me a look, but doesn’t bother to correct me. “Ah. My name is Doctor Mahibir. Don’t worry, I’ll take very good care of him,” is the reply. He snaps on a pair of surgical gloves and says, “Benjamin, can you please stand and move over to the sink?” Ben shakes me off and obeys. I hover uncomfortably at the edge of the exam table while his wound is cleaned and thoroughly disinfected. The girl in scrubs and I exchange a few awkward half-smiles whenever we make eye contact, both of us useless for the time being. It’s several minutes before Ben is allowed to return to the table. Dr. Mahibir picks up a syringe from the cart and says, “This is a local anesthetic. You’ll feel a slight pinch when it goes in, but then it should numb your arm enough for me to suture the wound.” Ben nods, but says nothing. He lets me take his hand again, lets me perch on the edge of the exam table next to him, winces when the needle goes in. That almost makes me laugh—that someone who’s here because he intentionally cut open his own arm would flinch at getting a shot. The anesthetic is followed by another shot that the doctor claims will help prevent infection, and then the stitching begins. At one point, I make the mistake of sneaking a peek at his arm—just as the giant, curved needle pierces his flesh and hooks through the other side of the wound, suturing it together, and holy fuck. I give Ben’s good hand a tight squeeze and get shakily to my feet. “I-I’ll be right back, okay?” He nods; he’s been following the progress of my eyes with his, so I don’t doubt that he knows what’s going on. I wobble towards the door and edge out into the hallway. Travis is standing next to the door, alone. He looks around at me and says, “Your friend went out for a cigarette a couple of minutes ago. She said—dude, are you okay?” I give a wild shake of my head and barely make it down the hallway and into a stall in the men’s room before I’m sick. I can hear the shifting of feet outside the stall door, meaning Travis must have followed me in, though he thankfully maintains his distance until I’m done puking my brains out. Even after my body has stopped reflexively trying to reject any of the food that’s in me, I know I can’t go back into that room unless my stomach is completely empty. Ben needs me, but more than that, he needs for me to be strong, and he’s not going to think I’m strong if I walk into the room, take a glance at his arm, and have to leave to be sick again. So, in what I can only consider to be a preventative countermeasure, I stick my fingers far back into my throat and press my other hand hard against my gut until my shoulders roll forward and I empty the remaining contents of my stomach into the toilet. When I have finished and moved out of the stall to rinse my mouth and wash my hands, Travis is idling by the sink and holding a folded and dampened paper towel out to me. I don’t accept it, and he rolls his eyes, steps much to far into my personal space, and drapes it across the back of my neck. I shiver—the coolness of it helps me feel significantly less disgusting, but I sort of hate the fact that even now, when I’m supposed to be taking care of Ben, I still need someone to take care of me. “He’s okay,” I say finally, “and I’m okay. It’s just—the doctor was stitching him up. And I looked. And it was—fuck. I-I don’t really do too well with blood, I guess. Or needles.” “Ironic, considering I once watched you shove a piercing into your own lip in the middle of my living room,” he says. I manage to return a weak imitation of his wry smile and say, “It was the den, not the living room. And that was different, I was high as balls. I don’t think—I only know how to deal with shit like this when I’m fucked up. I don’t think I can do this sober.” The confession is out without my permission or consideration of what I’m actually saying. To his credit, Travis takes it in stride; he barely looks like he’s going to die as he says slowly, “Are you saying you want to use right now?” I brace my palms on the sides of the sink and meet his eyes in the mirror. “I’m saying that… look, I’m not going to go out and score. I’m not going to hit a bar on the way home. But I’d be lying if I said that I was able to think anything right now other than, ‘holy shit, I need a drink.’” “No, you don’t,” Travis says simply. “I get how hard this is for you right now, because I’ve been there. Do you think I didn’t want to do that—” He flings an arm out to the side, in the general direction of the exam room, presumably referring to the gash across Ben’s arm, “—when you were in the hospital last spring? It was killing me to see you hurt like that, and all I wanted to do was find something I could do to myself that could make it feel better by making it feel worse. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Just like you can’t do anything now, okay?” He makes it sound so simple; he gives me too much credit. But he’s right, and I find myself nodding. Before I can make sense of the movement, he steps closer and yanks me into a tight hug. I squeeze my eyes shut. I haven’t had his arms around me in—fuck, when? Since the night he told me about Joss being pregnant? Does that even count, or should I be thinking of whenever the time before that was? Him helping me stagger up to Ben’s apartment after my relapse. Him holding me while I had a complete breakdown after he wrestled my father’s gun away from me, before I went into rehab. Will there ever be a time when he touches me because he wants to, not because I need him to? The moment’s too heavy. I say, “Hugging someone who’s just been throwing up. You’re so gross.” He snorts and buries his face in the side of my neck. “That’s what Josslyn says whenever she gets sick and I try to ask her if she needs anything. I’ll knock on the bathroom door and be like, ‘is there anything I can do? What do you want from me?’ And she’ll just yell back, ‘I want you to go back in time and get a fucking vasectomy.’ And then when she comes out, I’ll try and hug her, and she’ll usually throw something at me.” It’s such a domestic thing to say; it makes me want to walk in front of a bus. Instead, I settle for asking, “Do you guys do that a lot?” “Fight?” he asks, nodding even as the word comes out. And okay, that makes me feel better, but I shake my head. “Spend the night together. And the mornings, when she’s, you know—” “Morning sickness isn’t actually just in the mornings,” he says. “And it doesn’t always stop after the first couple of months, either. For her, it’s mostly right after meals—that’s why she’s such a bitch during lunch every day. The smell of all the food in the cafeteria makes her feel nauseated.” Privately, I think she’s a bitch during lunch every day because she’s just a bitch. But I say, “I didn’t know that. Guess I’m dumb.” “You’re not dumb. You just don’t need to know shit like that, because you weren’t enough of a fucking idiot to knock somebody up at seventeen years old,” he says. I’m pretty sure that the issue of me knocking somebody up lies less in whether or not I’m an idiot, and more in the fact that the idea of me even being able to maintain an erection during intercourse with a female is simultaneously laughable and vile. I raise a hand to stroke the back of his head, card my fingers through his hair; he melts into the touch. I don’t think I can handle going back into the exam room until I know that Ben’s arm is stitched most of the way up, so I try to distract myself by reluctantly asking, “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl yet?” He shakes his head, still not leaning away from my body. “Won’t really find that out until about eighteen weeks, and she’s only at around six now. So, I won’t know until the middle of January, at the earliest.” “Which do you hope it is?” “On the record? I’ll be happy with either,” he says. There’s a beat, and then he leans back to meet my gaze. He somehow manages to look tired, and nervous, and the tiniest bit excited all at once. “Off the record? I—having a daughter might be, um… I mean, obviously I didn’t plan any of this. And not getting my girlfriend pregnant was Plan A, but that’s sort of shot to hell. So… having a girl might be a good Plan B.” I brush his hair off his forehead and try not to ache. “Well, I hope you have a boy, so that you can name him after me.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to name my kid anything I’ve ever shouted out in orgasm, dude. That’s weird.” And of course he had to do that. He just had to remind me of what we had before. I let my arms drop and give him a gentle nudge backwards. “I should get back to Ben. The doctor’s probably done with his sutures now.” “Yeah, definitely,” he says at once. “I’ll just… I’ll wait in the hall, with Stohler. We’ll wait until it’s done.” I step around him and back out into the hall. Stohler is once again hovering outside the exam room, looking anxious, though she rolls her eyes when she sees Travis and I exiting the bathroom together. “What, seriously? Now seemed like the right time to sneak off for a quickie in the men’s room?” “No, now seemed like the right time for me to go throw up, because holy fuck, watching someone get stitches is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. And I’ve done some pretty twisted shit in—” The exam room door opens, and the girl in scrubs steps out, dragging the cart after her. She catches my eye and says, “You can go back in, if you’d like.” “Thanks,” I say. “Just—before I do that, who should I talk to about billing? I, um, I’m going to be paying for this.” Her forehead wrinkles. “I thought that Mr. McCutcheon said—” “Mr. McCutcheon’s a stubborn ass who doesn’t know how to accept help when he needs it. So am I; it’s why we’re so good together. So, I’d sort of like to handle this before he realizes what I’m doing,” I say, and she chuckles a little. “Come on up to the front. Ellen will talk you through the payment process.” Payment is simple enough; the bill is only a couple hundred dollars, and they accept my card without any hassle. I have to let them take down all of my billing information—presumably because they’re curious as to how an eighteen-year-old guy with a lip ring and a fauxhawk can afford to just whip out a credit card and drop half a grand without batting an eye. By the time I return to the exam room, Dr. Mahibir is talking Ben through the aftercare of the stitches. Ben’s arm is strapped into a sling, which the doctor explains will keep his arm curled against his chest enough to prevent it from being jostled, which might open the stitches. Just before the doctor leaves, Ben receives two prescriptions—one for antibiotics, one for painkillers. I try my hardest not to remember the dizzying, floating oblivion that comes from some quality painkiller abuse, but it doesn’t work. By the time Dr. Mahibir asks how Ben will be paying, my jaw is almost clenched too much for me to get out, “It’s been handled.” Ben’s eyes snap to mine. “Garen—” “Dude, can you not fight me on this? Can you just let me take care of you, and say ‘thank you,’ and have that be it?” I say. “Thank you,” he bites out, but it sounds a lot more like fuck you. The tension only increases when we step out into the hall and he realizes that Stohler isn’t the only one waiting for him. He and Travis stare at each other for several too-long seconds before he says, “What are you doing here?” “I was sitting next to Garen when you called him. And when I realized what you—I couldn’t not come, Ben,” Travis says hoarsely. “You realize that, right?” “I hate—” Ben says, and Travis flinches. Ben stares at him, swallows, tries again, “I hate double-negatives.” Stohler throws her hands up and stalks down the hallway, muttering, “Fucking English majors.” “I had to come,” Travis amends quietly. “Please—” But Ben is already heading down the hallway after Stohler. Travis shoves his hands into his pockets, and we linger there for a moment, both of us waiting to see if the other might offer some word of comfort. Neither of us does, so eventually, there’s nothing left to do but head outside. The Ferrari only seats two people, so Ben gets a ride back to the apartment with Stohler. She idles at the curb to let him out, but I swing into the parking lot and park in Alex’s still-empty space. “Come on,” I say to Travis; he gets out of the car without objection. The building’s door has already swung shut behind Ben by the time we reach it, but he turns around and blinks at us when I rap my knuckles hard against the glass. After a moment, he pushes it back open, and I say, “I’m going to come up to your apartment now. And you’re going to show me where you keep all your razor blades or safety pins or broken glass or whatever the fuck else you use. And it’s all coming with me. I’m not leaving it in this building with you.” “You plan to take all my cutlery, too?” he asks. “If I have to.” His jaw is working like he wants to protest, but he steps aside and lets us enter the building. I pluck his keys from his back pocket and lead the way up to his apartment to unlock the door. The second I’ve stepped over the threshold, I wish I hadn’t. There are smudged red fingerprints across the intercom next to the door, and there’s a trail of blood droplets leading from the door down the hall in the direction of Ben’s room. For a long moment, the three of us stand in the front hall, none of us saying a word. Then Travis clears his throat and edges past me and Ben into the kitchen, saying quietly, “I’ll clean up. You two go collect whatever it is you want to leave the building.” Ben hooks his middle finger through my belt loop and tows me down the hall to his room. I’m not sure how long I’m going to be here, but I shut the door anyway. If I thought the hallway was bad, it’s nothing compared to the way my stomach rolls over at the streaks of blood that decorate his bed. The top blanket is smeared with dark red, as if he had panicked and tried to stop the bleeding by applying pressure with the first strip of fabric he could reach. Fighting back nausea, I edge around Ben and strip the blanket off the bed, folding it carefully and trying not to let it touch anything else, even though it seems like most of the blood has dried. The empty CD case that he uses to hold his razor blades is lying open on the nightstand; I snap it shut and toss it onto the folded blanket, then turn expectantly towards Ben. “Is there anything else?” He moves wordlessly over to the desk and slides open the top drawer, extracting a black, plastic square that seems designed to hold fresh razor blades. He drops it on top of the CD case, then continues to dig through the desk, eventually surfacing with a box of thumbtacks and a couple of safety pins. At my questioning glance, he shrugs and says, “It seems like a lot, but I’ve used all of those things to do it before. If you really want me to stop, you might as well take everything.” “Okay,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot his backpack, slumped on his desk chair and scattered with buttons. Not bothering to seek his permission first, I unhook each of the pins, most of which seem to be for past years’ Banned Book Week, or his dad’s used book store, or random quotes about literature and censorship. “I’ve never hurt myself with any of those, you know,” Ben says. I shrug. “I’d rather be safe than sorry.” “I like them,” he says, scowling and trying to sneak away with a pin that reads, There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all. I pry it out of his hand and return it to the pile of confiscated items. We glare at each other for a beat, and then he says, “Fine. But your dumb ass better find me an Oscar Wilde hoodie or something, to make up for this.” I’ll buy him a hoodie with a quote from whatever dead literary faggot he wants, if it’ll get him to stop sawing at his wrists whenever he’s left alone for too long. But I can tell this isn’t about the hoodie, or the pins, or any of it. I duck my head and say, “We’re about to break up, aren’t we?” If it were anyone else, now would be the time when I’d be hearing some snide comment about how we were never really together. But for all his sarcasm and eyerolling and deadpan delivery, Ben isn’t a fan of bullshit. He drags his good hand through his hair and sighs. “I don’t… Garen, I don’t want to, but—” “But we’re, um,” I break off and swallow hard. “We’re both sort of fucked up, huh?” He laughs, and that helps. It breaks the tension, at least, makes me smile. He says, “Yeah. We’re both really fucked up right now. And—look, dude, I like what we have, you know? And other than Alex—” “Other than Jamie—” “You’re my best friend,” we say at the same time, and he makes a face. I grin and say, “Hanging out with you is really awesome, man.” “And the sex isn’t too bad,” he admits. I knock my elbow against his good arm and say, “The sex is fucking amazing, who are you trying to fool? Don’t think I don’t remember you saying last week that it’s the best you’ve ever had. Because you did, you totally said that. That awkward night where you shot me down when I asked you out—and really, way to stick to your guns on that one, dude, ‘cause in case you haven’t noticed, we’re breaking up right now, so obviously we started dating at some—” “This is the point,” Ben says, wiggling the fingers of the arm he’s got in the sling, then making a sweeping motion past it with his other hand, “and this is you, completely missing it.” I raise my eyebrows. “We’re best bros, and we have filthy, kinky, disgustingly great sex, but we’re both addicts. I want drugs, and you want to cut yourself, and if we’re together, neither of us is going to be able to focus on ourselves enough to get better. Did I leave anything out? Is this still me, missing the point?” He sighs and flops back onto the bed, wincing when the motion jostles his arm. In an instant, I’m kneeling next to him on the bed and ghosting my palm across his chest. Fucking idiot, throwing himself around when he’s just had half his arm sewn back together, what the hell. He scowls but lifts his good arm so that I can curl up against his side with my head pillowed on his chest. He combs his fingers lazily through my hair for a few minutes before he says, “You should probably go soon. Travis is still out in the living room, and you need to bring him back.” “Are we going to tell him that he was right about it not being a good idea for us to hook up?” I ask. Ben snorts. “Fuck no. I’d rather slash my other wrist than ever tell that ass he was right about anything. Especially my love life.” “If you make a joke like that again, I will punch you in the stitches,” I warn. Like a good boy, he falls silent, but like an asshole, I can’t resist lifting my head to shoot him a sly smile and say, “Love life, huh? You loooove me, McCutcheon?” “I might, if you weren’t such a dick all the time,” he says. I let my head drop back onto his chest. “Yeah, yeah. I love you, too,” I say, and his hand returns to my hair. The repetitive motion is soothing, and I’m almost tempted to fall asleep right here, with my arms around Ben and his hand in my hair. My friendship with him is probably the closest I’ve ever been to anyone, other than what I have with Jamie and what I had with Travis. I don’t want to get up off of this bed and walk out of this room and have that change. I slip my hand from his waist to the buckle of his studded belt and murmur, “You know, since you’re so lightheaded from blood loss and bombed out on painkillers and whatever, you’d probably have a wicked orgasm if we fucked right now.” Ben laughs and bats my hand away from his belt. “Raincheck. The doctor said I’ll be good as new in about six weeks, so let’s hold off on the breakup sex until I’m not in a goddamn sling, yeah?” Breakup sex. God. It’s not like I ever expected Ben to be my boyfriend, or my not-boyfriend, or whatever, but the idea of him being my ex-boyfriend is even more intolerable. I sit up and swing a leg over him so that I’m straddling the tops of his thighs. He blinks up at me, still a bit sluggish from his painkillers, but I catch his face between my hands and hope that some of my urgency will transfer to him as I say, “This isn’t going to fuck up our friendship, right? We said that things wouldn’t change between us even if we couldn’t make a not-relationship work out. We promised.” “I know, G. We’re going to be fine,” he assures me, and I’m somewhat mollified by that. He crooks a finger at me, and I lean down to meet him. Rather than draw me into a kiss as desperate and passionate as all the others we’ve shared, he gives me a simple peck on the cheek. And I guess that’s the end of it. I clamber off the bed, gather up the blanket and razors, and walk out. The trail of blood down the hallway has been scrubbed clean. I wonder how long Travis was outside the door; I wonder how much he heard. In the living room, he’s waiting for me in this really weird way—he’s sitting on the couch, hugging his legs to his chest, but his feet are dangling off the edge of it, like he’s afraid of getting the cushions dirty with the soles of his shoes. Considering he just spent twenty minutes scrubbing blood out of the carpet, his scale of what counts as quality housekeeping can probably rest easy for a while. There’s a trash bag on the ground in front of him, presumably carrying whatever cleaning supplies he had to use on the floor and the intercom. He doesn’t look up until I’m standing less than a foot away from him, but when he does, he forces a tight smile. “Everything okay?” “Yeah,” I say, stuffing the blanket and wrist-cutting paraphernalia into the trash bag at his feet. “We just broke up.” He looks startled. “You, um—a-are you okay? Both of you?” “Yeah,” I repeat. “He’s still pretty out of it right now, so he’s just going to rest. I’ll call in a couple of hours to check on him, make sure he’s not, you know—” dead. I clear my throat. “He said to tell you goodbye. Can we go?” He hesitates, then nods.

We make it halfway back to Lakewood with nothing but the sound of the car stereo between us. It’s unbearable. It’s been such a long day, and Ben’s arm is fucked up, and Stohler probably thinks our whole group is crazy, and Travis hopes he’s having a daughter, and I was just not-broken-up with, and all I want is for someone to talk to me, and tell me that everything’s going to be okay, even when it’s so obviously not. By the time we cross the Woodbridge town line, my hands are shaking so hard that it’s difficult for me to grip the wheel properly. It takes all of my focus to keep myself breathing, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see Travis smoothing his palms compulsively over the knees of his jeans, as if trying to psych himself up to speak. When Woodbridge fades away and we cross into the last town before Lakewood, he gives up and gestures with one shaking hand to the parking lot of a pizza place. “Turn in here.”

I do so without hesitating or asking why… or bothering to use my turn signal. The car behind me honks, but fuck him for tail-gating anyway. I’ve barely managed to put the car in park before Travis is unbuckling his seatbelt and launching himself at me, arms wound tight around my neck and his face buried in my hair. I clutch the back of his t-shirt in my hands and just cling to him as he chokes out, “I don’t want to do this anymore. Th-This ‘not being friends with you’ thing, I don’t want it. I need you guys to take me back.” “Trav—” “I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry,” he babbles right over me. “I’m sorry for everything. For making out with Joss while you were on the scaffolding, for making you relapse, for every time you felt like I was bailing on you, even when I was just trying to give you space to work through shit on your own. I’m sorry for letting my girlfriend say all that shit to you, and about you, and about Stohler, during Nate’s birthday dinner. I’m sorry for agreeing to stop talking to you, just because it made Joss insecure. I’m sorry for judging what you had with Ben, and for trying to force everyone else to subscribe to my sink-or-swim mentality, and for fighting with him on Monday, and for freaking you out when I grabbed your hip in the classroom, I’m so unbelievably sorry for that. You have to believe me, I didn’t know—I didn’t think it would affect you like that. I’m sorry for all the times I refused to tell you what my mom had said about you that day you went to rehab, even though you kept asking, and I’m sorry for then suddenly just f-fucking unloading everything in front of you during that meeting last week. I’m sorry for like, telling your fucking mom that I’m in love with you, like you weren’t even in the room with us, that was so weird, I can’t believe I did that. I’m sorry for being in love with you—” “I’m not going to let you apologize for that,” I interrupt, squeezing my eyes shut. “Seriously, I’ll accept your apology on all the rest of it, but not that.” His breath is shallow against the side of my neck as he says, “I don’t know how to live my life without you in it. Please, G. Please, can we just go back to being friends again?” I will be whatever you want me to be. “Yeah,” I say, rubbing circles into his back with my palm. “Of course, dude. We can be friends again.” It’s still at least another twenty minutes before he’ll release me so that I can drive us the rest of the way back to town.

46 days sober

It takes Travis about thirty seconds to get fully back into my good graces—early on Saturday afternoon, he shows up at my front door with a nervous smile and a cardboard tray holding four cups of coffee. “Hi. So, I just got off work. And I was thinking maybe you could help me—” “Are any of those for me?” I ask, eyes fixed on the cups. He thrusts the tray into my hands and plucks just one of the cups back out. “Those are. I thought—” “Congratulations, you’ve just solidified your status is my favorite friend. Get in the house, it’s weirdly cold out today.” “Well, it’s almost November, what do you expect?” he says, but he’s got a dorky little smile on his face, and he steps over the threshold without needing to be told again. There is a brief moment of awkwardness when I lead him through to the living room and flop back into my previously vacated seat on the couch. He hesitates in the doorway, then sinks into the space next to me and offers a stilted wave to my dad, who is sitting on my other side, watching some creepy Animal Planet program about snakes, and blinking in surprise at seeing his soon-to-be-former stepson in the same room as him. Travis says, “Hi, B—uh, Mr. Anderson.” Dad looks vaguely amused. “Hi, Travis. You know, you can still call me ‘Bill.’ You don’t need to go back to calling me ‘Mr. Anderson’ just because your mother and I are getting divorced. Speaking of, how is she?” “Still a mega bitch,” I answer, taking a long sip from one of the coffee cups. It’s that same silky caramel combination he made for me the day we stopped speaking, and it’s just as delicious now as it was then. Dad silences me with a glare, then turns expectant eyes towards Travis. Travis, however, shrugs and reluctantly agrees, “Still a mega bitch.” “Yes, well…” Dad pauses, seemingly unsure of how to continue without acknowledging the truth of what’s been stated. I guess he can’t come up with anything, because eventually he just shrugs and gestures to the two of us. “I didn’t realize that you two were friends again.” I shrug. “Yeah. He apologized for being a fucking tool, so I guess we’re good.” Dad raises his eyebrows, so I add sharply, “Don’t make it weird.” He directs his raised eyebrows back to the television, and once I’m satisfied that he’s not going to make this into a thing, I turn to Travis and ask, “So, what is it that you were thinking I could help you with?” “Getting Ben to not hate me anymore?” he admits. “Things were off between us for a while, and then this past week or so has made it so much worse, and I just… I want my friend back. Look, I get that I said some things that I shouldn’t have, and sure, maybe I overstepped my boundaries by making it clear that I didn’t think you guys should be getting involved with each other right now—a point that I stand by, and seem to have been proved right about, by the way. But I mean… what he did was completely unreasonable, too.” I frown. “What the hell did he do?” “That, um—” Travis’ eyes flicker over to Dad, then back to me, though they’re now slightly widened to emphasize his words. “That thing. That he did. Or, that you both did, I guess. You know what I’m talking about, dude.” I take a sip of my coffee. “What, you mean when he spit my cum onto your car?” Dad mutes the television and turns to gape at me. “Ben did what?” “Well, your horrified expression tells me that you heard me right the first time,” I say, and Travis buries his face in his hands. A little too late, I’m realizing I maybe should have waited until my dad was out of the room to discuss this matter. “I don’t see what the big deal is. That’s what they make windshield wipers for.” “That is most definitely not what they make windshield wipers for, Garen Michael Anderson,” Dad snaps, and I shrug. “First of all, that is just—that is rude! You shouldn’t deface another person’s belongings, especially with—with—” “You really can’t even begin to figure out how to yell at me for this, can you?” I say, unable to bite back a grin. “Like, I bet not a single one of those parenting books you’ve read ever had a chapter about ‘how to chastise your child for allowing his significant other to spit his jizz at your stepson.’ You are floundering so hard right now, and it is a beautiful sight to behold.” “—and what’s more to the point—for Christ’s sake, I can’t believe I actually need to tell you this, but I was under the apparently misguided impression that you boys all knew enough to be safe. You’ve had two safe sex lectures already—one when you were still in middle school, another after you came out to your mother and I. I never expected that I would have to give you a third one, when you’re almost nineteen years old and have already been having sex for two years,” Dad says. I slowly raise four fingers into the air, and he holds a hand up to silence me, grimacing. “Please, just… let me keep my delusions, alright? Two years.” “Two years,” I agree, even though, no, four. But then everything feels a bit more serious, and I say, “Look, Dad, I get the safe sex thing, okay? I swear. I never—brace yourself, ‘cause if you’re still trying to convince yourself I was a virgin until I was almost seventeen, you’re gonna really hate this next part—I never fuck anyone without a condom. Ever. And I only have oral without a condom when I’m one hundred percent certain that the guy’s clean. Ben and I have both been tested, and we’re both fine.” “And you get tested regularly?” Dad forces himself to ask. “At least every six months?” I can’t help but grin as I say, “Every three, actually. You know, better to be safe than sorry, and I kind of get laid a lot—” “I think you’re doing that ‘too much information’ thing again,” Travis mutters. I gesture in his direction. “Hey. Since he’s here, I’m pretty sure Travis is lacking a strong male role model, and you’re technically still his stepfather. Wanna give him a safe sex lecture, too?” I say, and Travis turns blank eyes on me. I chomp down hard on my tongue, wishing I could take the words back—it’s probably not a good idea to joke like that about someone who actually impregnated his girlfriend less than two months ago. “From what you’ve unfortunately told me over the past year, you’ve already given him that lecture,” Dad says. “And some practical demonstrations,” I say, and we sneer at each other. Travis sucks in a deep breath and rolls his eyes towards the ceiling, uttering, “I’m going to kill myself.” It’s sort of funny, and sort of not. I pull out my cell phone and say to him, “Look, if you want my help getting you and Ben back on speaking terms, you’re going to have to accept as much of the blame for the fighting as he is. Yeah, he shouldn’t have done what he did to your car, and yeah, in hindsight, you maybe had a slight point about it not being the best idea for us to rely on each other as much as we did. But in fine Travis McCall tradition, you got into a new relationship and checked out on your friends. All of us. That was a dick move, and you need to be willing to apologize for that, because if you don’t—I mean, Alex will probably forgive you anyway, but Ben will eat you alive. So, you’d better start planning some big ‘I’m sorry’ speech for him, just like the one I got.” Before he can say anything else, I send off a group text to both Ben and Alex that says, i have a surprise for you guys. both of you come over now & bring me a slice of carrot cake from that weird vegan lezzie cafe on your block. no arguments. is the surprise that ur a fuckin fatass? its not my job 2 bring u cake every time u wanna hang out, bro, Alex texts back. Because Ben is the nice one, he responds with, Ignore him. Alex is just pouting because your friend has been ignoring his texts since last night. We’ll be over within the hour. This had better be a good surprise. I wonder if Ben will ever reach the point where he’s willing to call Jamie by his actual name. I send two texts then; one to the pair of them saying, if you bring me cake, i’ll tell you why he’s ignoring you :D and another to Jamie, alex wants to know why you’re ignoring his texts. if you tell me, he’ll give me cake. don’t fuck up my day, goldwyn. Mission accomplished—or, at least, mission initiated—I toss my phone onto the coffee table and announce, “Your life will be fixed before two o’clock.” “Just like that?” Travis says, taken aback. I shrug and confirm, “Just like that. Did you do the reading for AP English yet?” To what I’m sure must be my father’s unending delight, we actually do focus on our schoolwork—debating The Merchant of Venice, which I am convinced is just chock full of gay, even though Travis keeps rolling his eyes and telling me that I’m reading too much into Bassanio and Antonio’s relationship—for the fifty minutes it takes for Ben and Alex to show up. When Dad peeks out the front door and sees that Ben’s car has pulled into the driveway, he shakes his head and sneaks off to the kitchen, presumably so he won’t have to look into the eyes of someone who he knows has recently tasted my semen. I scramble to my feet and fling the front door open before they can ring the bell, dragging them both over the threshold and announcing, “The surprise is that I’m a meddlesome life-ruiner! Did you bring my cake?” “Yeah, we—” Alex stops speaking the moment his eyes land on Travis, still shifting nervously on the couch. Ben quirks an eyebrow—and goddamn, I never knew it was possible to put that much disdain into a single movement. Travis shoots me a wild glance which I assume he intends to mean, Is this really your version of fixing things? Because this is uncomfortable and you are terrible at this, but which I have chosen to interpret as, Garen, you’re so awesome, thank you for fixing my life even though I’m an asshole who doesn’t really deserve it. It’s all in the translation, really. “I was wondering whose car that was,” Ben says finally. “Mine. Yeah,” Travis says. “Looks a bit different when you’re walking past it instead of climbing on top of it, huh?” Ben flushes and looks away. “Right. That.” “That,” my father echoes bleakly from the kitchen, and it’s probably a good thing that I confiscated all of Ben’s razorblades, because right now, he’s looking pretty close to suicide. “You told your dad about that?” he hisses. I wave a hand dismissively in his general direction. “It just sort of slipped out.” “What are you all even talking about?” Alex demands. “Alex, I promise you that you do not want to know,” Dad calls. “Or, to be perfectly frank, you might. I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure out where you fit into this whole group situation.” “He fits into Jamie, mostly. And me, once, when I was super drunk,” I say, mainly because both Travis and Ben are looking mortified, and I don’t want Alex to feel left out. Dad stomps out of the kitchen and heads straight for the front door, eyes wide and intentionally not focused on any of us. “I’m going to go to the store. We need… groceries. From the store.” No one speaks again until the door has banged shut behind him, and then three sets of furious eyes turn to me. I shrink back into the couch cushions and am instantly on the defensive. “Well, it got him out of the house, didn’t it? And I just wanted to break the ice. I was afraid things would be awkward.” “Why is it,” Travis says through gritted teeth, “that your default icebreaker is trying to get everyone to talk about your dick?” “My default icebreaker is usually trying to get everyone to touch my dick. Pick your battles, McCall,” I warn. His focus, however, is already elsewhere, as he turns sharp eyes on Alex and says, “Also, since when does everybody know about you and James, and when the hell was this ‘once when Garen was super drunk’?” “No,” I say, standing up and glaring around at all of them. “No, that is not how we’re doing this. We’re not going to all bitch at each other about stupid—look, can you all just stop hating each other? We’re supposed to be friends.” Ben snaps, “And we were, up until he decided to start passing judgment on my sex life—” “I’m sorry,” Travis interrupts, and I nod frantically, beckoning for him to continue on that track. He shoots me a warning look, and I quickly drop my hands. Satisfied that I’m going to remain silent and still, he says, more calmly, “I’m sorry for being a dick, and I’m going to take the liberty of assuming that you are also sorry for being a dick. If you can get over the fact that I’ve been a shitty, distant friend, and that I judged your relationship, then I can get over what you did, too. Agreed?” It’s the world’s shittiest apology. To be fair, I might be biased, considering I still can’t forget the heartache in his voice and the tension in his body as he clung to me and begged for my forgiveness a few days ago. But after nearly a minute, the walls surrounding Ben crack, and he sinks onto the couch, too. His voice is tired as he says, “Agreed.” Still without much comment, Alex drops down onto the couch between them. And there they are, three of my four or five favorite people, all lined up together, and no one hates anyone, and everybody forgives each other, and before any of them can stop me, I’m crawling onto the couch to join them. I end up mostly in Alex’s lap, with my legs stretched out across Travis, and my head and shoulders on Ben, though I’m careful to avoid touching his injured arm. They all grumble, but I don’t care—my heart is doing this embarrassing clenching thing in my chest, and I start babbling, “This is fucking great, I’m so glad you guys aren’t all going to be cocks about this. It’s like we’ve gotten the whole group back together, except for how, you know, we haven’t, because we’re missing Stohl—oh, Travis, that reminds me. I don’t know if you like Stohler? You’ve met her twice, and she comes off kind of cunty, but she’s great, and you’re going to have to get used to her, because she hangs out with us now, it’s sort of a thing. And even if you don’t get along with her, you have to pretend, ‘cause that’s what we make Ben and Jamie do, except they fucking suck at it, it’s so obvious they hate—” “Question still stands, by the way,” Travis interrupts, nudging Alex’s elbow with his own. “Since when am I not the only person who knows about you and James?” Ben leans forward slightly to frown at him around Alex. “How long have you known?” Travis snorts. “Like, four months? He told me about it the day you went to go bring Garen back from Ohio. It’s been so fucking stupid, pretending there’s nothing going on. He wasn’t even being subtle about it. They snuck off to make out like, ten times during that cookout over the summer. And they’re constantly texting each other—” Alex digs his fingertips into my ribs. “Wait. You swore you’d tell me why he’s ignoring my texts. What’s going on?” I blink; I’d sort of forgotten about that. I lean over and snag my phone from the coffee table. There’s a reply from Jamie, but it’s not a regular text. It’s a screen cap of a conversation with Alex. Only half of Jamie’s first text is visible, wants me to make a decision by Thanksgiving.

thats like less than a month from now, dude, Alex had texted back.

I’m aware, is Jamie’s terse reply. well it’d probably be more convenient for u 2 have someone in nyc instead of new haven, right?

Convenient, yes.

doesnt sound like that difficult of a choice, then.

It’s not a difficult choice for me at all, Jamie had texted. Night, Alex.

“So?” Alex prompts me now. “What’s wrong?”

I want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him and yell right in his face, You are what’s wrong, you stupid fuck. Jamie is perfect, and he wants you, and you are so goddamn stupid if you don’t want him back. Ben doesn’t want you like you want him, so stop obsessing over him, because it’s hurting my best friend, and that’s making me hate you a little bit. But it’s not my place to say any of that; Jamie would kill me for interfering, and I can’t exactly say that with Ben right here, his head tilted quizzically to the side at my silence. I meet Travis’ eyes, and he grimaces—he has known about Jamie and Alex longer than any of us, and he knows how Alex feels about Ben. He knows exactly what’s wrong.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I say around a tight smile. “He’s just busy with school right now. I’m sure he’ll text you when he has time.”

“He’s still coming down for the party on Tuesday, though, right?” Alex says.

I don’t get why he bothers to look so hopeful, if this doesn’t really mean anything to him. It’s not fair. I snap, “I don’t know, dude. I’ll call him later tonight and ask, but right now, I don’t know what’s going on. Alright?”

“Alright. Jesus Christ,” Alex mutters.

For a long moment, no one speaks. Alex and I continue to semi-glare at each other; Travis just chews on his thumbnail and regards me with wide eyes. Finally, Ben sighs and stretches his good arm across the back of the couch, behind Alex’s head, to nudge Travis’ shoulder. “We’re having a party at the apartment on Halloween. Us, Stohler, maybe James, some people from Al’s school, some from mine. It’s nothing too big, just costumes, music, probably beer pong.”

“Definitely beer pong,” I correct. “You’re amending the house rules so that each team can call in a designated drinker for one of the players, because yeah, I’m sober and all, but I’m also a fucking animal at beer pong.”

“Doesn’t that defeat the whole point of the game, if each team has someone who’s never going to get drunk and start doing sloppy throws?” Alex asks.

“Yes, Garen, we’ll change the house rules so you can play,” Ben placates me, and I twist to press a grateful kiss to the tips of the fingers dangling out of his sling. He adds, “Whatever. Travis, are you in or what?”

And it’s easy to forget the tension of the moment when I see the wide smile that breaks out across Travis’ face as he nods.